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A FARMER'S MUSINGS 



Copyright 1920 
Alfred Llewellyn French 



©CI.A576876 



OCT 13 1920 




ALFRED LLEWELLYN FRENCH 



A FARMER'S MUSINGS 



Boems 



OF 



ALFRED LLEWELLYN FRENCH 



1920 

Edwards & Brouqhton Printing Co. 

RALEIGH 



With every passing year comes 
brighter, truer, stronger glimpses 
of the character of her to whom 
this little book is dedicated. 



MY MOTHER 



My Mother — 

In whose veins there flowed, 

strong and unadulterated, 
The blood of those who, through 

privations grievous — 
Through cold, famine, pestilence, 

and harassed by savage foes — 
Gave birth to the greatest nation 

earth has ever known, 
A toast to you. 

My Mother — 

Who, while yet a girl in years, 

gave me birth; 
Loved me as only those with 

courage strong can love; 
Taught me three things: to be — 

honest, clean and courageous. 
Strengthening precept by the mighty 

power of example — 
With love ever new. 



My Mother — 

Who, when came sickness, poverty 

and times most sore, 
Gave not a sign of feeble 

weakening, 
But with head high, and mind 

alert, battled for her own, 
And through it all ceased not 

to be her merry self — 
Strong through and through. 

My Mother — 

Who, when to young manhood's years 

Vd come, 
Did not sit by with folded hands, 

and let me go) 
But with rare tact and wisdom, 

almost akin to fbresight, 
Did encourage, shame and argue 

to keep me in her way — 
You were all true. 

My Mother— 

Who, when thieving death, 

in passing by, 
Snatched all, save one, of 

hers most dear, 
Did not leave all to mourn 

her grievous loss, 
But sought in others lives the 

place that hurt, to soothe the pain — 
'Tis well with you. 



Contents 

Part I Nature Thoughts 

Part II . . Flirting with Mother Eve 
Part III . . . Stories and Other Poems 



PART ONE 



NATURE THOUGHTS 

Nature, in her moods and passion, 
Gives us food for thought each day; 
Carries us to heights at sunrise 
When her lord assumes his sway; 
Thrills us, when at eve in glory, 
She bids him take himself away; 
Soothes us with her cheery raindrops, 
Her April showers and rainbows gay; 
Teases from us adulation 
When on green fields shadows play; 
Awes us, when before her fury 
Forest monarchs must give way; 
Filches from us grudging homage, 
While floods rush past so angrily; 
Gives to snowclad mount a grandeur 
That tunes our hearts to joyful lay. 



12 A Farmer s Musings 



THE OLD SPRING 

From underneath a rough built casement, 
Formed of rocks from out the creek bed, 
Comes a stream of purest water 
Gently ever bubbling lip. 

Shaded first by strands of ivy — 
Twined about like arms of lovers — 
Then by stately swaying pine trees, 
Lies a battered rusty cup. 

After hours of tedious riding 
Under sun of southern splendor 
I, with sighs of satisfaction, 
Drink there like a thirsty pup. 

Then I stretch me on the greensward 
Midst the bugs and toads and beetles, 
And, with naught a care or sorrow, 
To meditation give me up. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 13 

A SPRINGTIME THOUGHT 

This springtime night at Sunny Home 
Makes me wish to take my staff and roam 
Far afield, where meadows green — 
Washed by dashing showers and gay — 
Seem not a thing of grass and clay, 
But more a living carpet robe 
Set there to hide a naked globe 
And make it seem the thing it's not ; 
A playground that the gods have bought 
And called their minstrels from afar 
To sing a line, then chant a bar, 
Where Winter grim, with frost and snow, 
Held pride of place a month ago. 

Methinks that on that hill of green — 

Where night has set its kindly screen 

And stars alone stand guard — 

There might come to my mind a thought 

Of the riches grass and grain have brought; 

And I might perchance find simple words 

To tell how, with grass and grain and herds, 

Other hills now bleak and bare 

Might some measure of this richness share 

And become a joy to passers by — 

Glad beauty spots to fill the eye — 

Instead of, as they now appear, 

Poor, cold, desolate and drear. 



14 A Farmer s Musings 



DROPS OF RAIN 

Music sweet you are to me, 
Dripping from each roof and tree; 
Life blood of the growing grain, 
Sparkling, cheering drops of rain. 

Kisses cool for parched blade 
Nestling on a heated glade; 
Carrying beauty in your train, 
Precious, priceless drops of rain. 

Baptism to a waiting earth, 
Keen to bring new plants to birth ; 
Holding hope for barren plain, 
Welcome, alway drops of rain. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 15 



THE YELLOW DAFFODIL 

When old winter keeps on coming 

At the time he's done enough 
Crowding back the springtime 

With its liberating stuff, 
One needs for patient waiting 

Some reminder that the days 
Of April showers and sunshine 

Return again always. 

The Master of creation — 

Realizing need of human hope — 
Knowing how all humans suffer 

If deprived of some such "dope," 
Has provided this reminder 

That he's caring for us still. 
You can't guess it, so I'll tell you, 

'Tis the yellow daffodil. 

Shooting up along the hedgerow 

Or other warm abandoned place, 
This happy winter chaser 

Lifts to us her smiling face. 
Standing by belated snow bank, 

Caring naught for frosts that chill, 
She's a hardy little beauty, 

Our plucky daffodil. 



16 A Farmer s Musings 

And when her work is finished, 

When she's tided o'er the span 
And turned a human " critter" 

Into a smiling joyous man, 
Then she takes on somber colors 

And retires from off the hill 
For she knows her place — this^beauty- 

This early daffodil. 



SPRING 

Softly wooing comes the Springtime 
Swiftly crossing hill and dale, 

Gently coaxing bud and leaflet, 
Heeding not Old Winter's wail. 

Raindrops falling through the sunshine 
Urging young things on to grow, 

Making green the barren places, 
And in the sky a gorgeous bow. 

Lambs so sportive on the hillside, 

Wild flowers blooming 'neath their feet, 

Song birds cooing to their nestmates, 
In tones so tender, low and sweet. 

Love we all the gladsome springtime — 
Earth's re-robing gentlest day — 

Time for strenuous work of building, 
Time for thoughts of love and play. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 17 



SUMMER 

Laden with the breath of roses, 
The sweet perfume of meadow poses, 
And songs of birds in swaying tree. 
You come my Summer day to me. 

Carrying on your face a smile 
That shortens many a weary mile, 
And bringeth joy to those who see. 
You come my Summer day to me. 

Or if you come with face in tears, 
You're but carrying out the plan of years 
When thus, with cheer to blade and tree, 
You come my Summer day to me. 

And if you come with tempest wild — 
Cause shattered tree and billows piled — 
'Tis thus to make me strong to be. 
You come my Summer day to me. 



18 A Farmer s Musings 



AUTUMN 

The Summer's charms have gone their way. 
The perfume of flowers and new mown hay 
Have passed along with the songs of birds. 
A chill at night wakes the drowsy herds. 

The Summer's hopes with us remain. 
The tasks performed, the mental strain 
Brought their reward of shock and stack, 
So who would win the summer back? 

And the Autumn's joys, who can deny? 
The scarlet leaf 'gainst a pale blue sky, 
The hush of the night, the frosty morn. 
The bay of the hound at the call of horn. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 19 



WINTER 

A sweep of the north wind 

O'er valley and hill; 
A grip on the waters 

Of river and rill; 
A storm cloud, low lying, 

Well laden with snow. 
Good-bye now, fair Autumn. 

'Tis your time to go. 

A stirring of life-blood. 

A quickening of pace ; 
The children so merry, 

And keen for a race; 
A battle in progress, 

With snowballs for shells, 
" Hurrah!" shouts the school boy, 

"Some Winter, ,, he yells. 

A blaze in the fireplace, 

A low, easy chair; 
Corn cribs well laden. 

And hay stacks to spare. 
Real troubles, not many, 

And blessings, not few; 
So Winter, at farm home 

There's a welcome for you. 



20 A Farmer s Musings 

MAY DAY 

May Day! when blossoms gay 
Bedeck the trees and invite away 
To orchard-lanes, 

Where nectar sweet, in flowered cup, 
Tolls bees and other insects up, 
Pledging to each a tiny sup; 
Asking of each, if he doesn't mind, 
To leave some pollen there behind 
That he has brushed from other flower 
On his gay trip this morning hour. 

May Day! few other days so fair, 

Nature all in best repair 

In wood and field, 

Song birds nesting in the trees, 

Clover swaying in the breeze, 

Grain crops well nigh to the knees, 

Promising a bounty soon 

That will cheer the harvest moon 

And ensure to humans and to kind 

A happy, merry winter time. 

May Day! May many yet 
Come to cheer lest we forget 
Kind Nature's gifts, 
And fail to render as her due 
Homage high and pure and true 
As life's field we travel through; 
Or cease to think of her as friend 
From Springtime to the old year end 
Nature, that, on this May Day 
Has carried us from self away. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 21 



THE COMING OF THE DAWN 

From out the night a paleness grows, 
Like candle light or far-off snows, 
Then shades of gold their places seek, 
As faintest blush on maiden's cheek. 

More swiftly now as chargers gay, 
Come the harbingers of day, 
Each in its turn more glorious — bright, 
'Till all abroad is God's sunlight. 



22 A Farmer s Musings 



FALLING OF THE SHACKLES 

March 26th 

Falling now from blades the shackles, 
Winter's cold had thought to keep; 

Emerald tints to grain and meadows. 
Coming swiftly while we sleep. 

Brown and sere through months of freezing, 

Struggled on the plucky blade, 
'Till at last the smile of springtime 

Brought relief o'er hill and glade. 

Tender as a mother's nursing 
Comes the balmy zephyr's call, 

Vieing with the touch of sunshine 
Lest the tender blade should fall. 

Cheered on by "knee deep" of bull frog — 
Making merry half the night — 

The gentle blade looks up serenely 
And takes dew kisses as her right. 

What more sweet in all earth's story — 
Told with each recurring spring — 

Than the blade's strong struggle upward, 
Beauty and great wealth to bring? 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 23 



EARTH'S RICHES 

Mother Earth holds stores of riches, 

Of some of which I fain would tell— 
Riches that are sadly needed 

To regulate the H. C. L. ; 
Riches not of mine or forest, 

Not of factory or mill, 
But riches that are closely hidden 

In fertile field or grass-clad hill; 

Riches that the reaper gathers 

As it breasts the golden waves, 
That the meadow yields up gladly 

As Summer sun the mower braves ; 
Spoils the kine delight to gather 

On their march o'er hill and vale 
And give at morn and nightfall 

To fill to brim the foaming pail. 

Massive ears the maize plant quarries 

Bit by bit the Summer through, 
As it digs deep in the brown loam 

In storm or when the skys are blue ; 
Products that the garden fertile 

Holds within its warm rich mould; 
That do their bit to cheer in summer 

Or later, when the days grow cold. 



24 A Farmer s Musings 

All of these, her hidden treasures, 

Our mother holds in bounteous store 
And grudges not to one her riches, 

Who's willing to unlock the door. 
But by the door she stands majestic 

And says to all the human race, 
"Before you enter here to gather 

Show me the sweat upon your face. 

Think you not to bring a brother 

And, pointing to his toil-stained hands, 
Say, "Mother Earth, here's a good fellow 

I've thought would do to till your lands. 
I'm a gentleman by nature, 

Used not to toil of hand or brain, 
So, when he has toiled a season, 

I'll be on hand to take the gain." 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 25 



THE "MEADOWS 



">•> 



Not once, but many times, IVe wished 
That more could view the "Meadows" fair 

As it lies, this day in May, 
An undulating piece of God's best work 

In making soil of Southern clay. 

It would, methinks, cause other hearts 
To beat a livelier tune and merry be, 

Could they but glimpse the fields of grain, 
The pastures fair, the meadows green, 

And — coming down the hill — the evening train. 

Andjstrange must be the man or maid, 
Whose joy would not the stronger grow, 

Could they but sense the charm and thrill 
That comes when " Bonnie Blacks," or kine 

With faces white, come drifting o'er the hill. 

Then, as the evening shadows fall 
O'er town and valley, while I look, 

The hope gains voice that more may taste, 
And learn the joy that comes to him, 

Who, sowing grass, reclaims a barren waste. 



26 A Farmer s Musings 



FAIR LESPEDEZA 

Gentle creeper, Lespedeza, 
Greatest all among the Legumes 
Sent to earth to save the Southland, 
Sent to heal its broken hillsides, 
To bring riches to its valleys 
And a robe to sun-scorched plain. 

Queen you are, Fair Lespedeza, 
Among the plants, that all unbidden, 
Awake from out their winter slumber, 
To bring verdure to the pasture 
And a mantle to the roadside, 
Where the Frost King's hand has lain. 

Stronger yet, our Lespedeza, 
Have you grown in times more recent 
Since we've learned to store your richness- 
Gathered from the rain and sunshine — 
To make glad and tide the season 
'Till the spring has come again. 

Sweep on, modest Lespedeza, 
'Till all out land from the Potomac 
To the Father of the Waters 
Has felt the strong rejuvenation 
Of your nodules and your humus, 
And our poor soil curse you've slain. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 27 



WHERE THE TENDER BLUE GRASS GROWS 

If you wish to feel the morning 

In all its beauty and repose, 
Greet it out among the mountains, 

Where the tender blue grass grows. 

And could you forget a springtime 

Seen in its most winning pose, 
Out among the mountain valleys, 

Where the tender blue grass grows? 

The Summer, too — as I recall it, 

Offers much of joy to those 
Who, on pleasure's quest, go larking, 

Where the tender blue grass grows. 

And the splendor of the Autumn, 

As with brilliant tints it glows, 
Should be viewed from off a hilltop 

Where the tender blue grass grows. 

And when hill and vale and mountain 
Are robed with fleecy, glistening snows, 

Grandeur then has reached its fruiting, 
Where the tender blue grass grows. 



28 A Farmer s Musings 

A PASSING DAY 

The day that's done was of wondrous brightness, 
Ushered in at the East with a blood-red flame. 

Then the great golden disk — with the world's swift gay 
turning — 
Was started upon its age-old scorching game. 

Higher it rose and hotter its breath came, 

'Till the leaves and grass lost their sparkle of dew; 

The cattle sought shelter 'neath the wide spreading oak 
tree 
And song birds with sadness to seclusion withdrew. 

The tender wee blades, that all night had been smiling 
With the kiss of the dew that gave freshness like rain, 

Were withered and drooping and well nigh heart broken 
As the Sun-god blazed forth full master again. 

Now a change has come o'er the face of all nature, 
A respite, and we smile at the sun's mighty power. 

We're turning away from his fierceness and anger; 
For the day is far spent, 'tis the calm evening hour. 

A great moon is rising far out in the heavens, 
And soon will it throw soft shadows around. 

Crickets and katydids and other gay night folks 
Proclaim that much gladness at night times abound. 



A sweet languor warns that the night is swift passing; 

The moon looks down calmly and invites us to rest, 
The tasks of today will look small with the morning, 

When greater are shouldered with courage and zest. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 29 



THE GIFT OF THE MORNING 

From off the Blue Ridge Mountains 

Came a cloud, low swung, black and gray. 

As a monster bird it came swooping, 
Blotting out the fast fading day. 

Swift came the night of winter 

As a silent soft footed beast. 
Not a bough that stirred, not a sound was heard 

As the cloud made its flight to the East. 

Then came the snow, fine, sifting 

Down through the coal-black night — 

As a ghost unchained on its nightly jaunt — 
? Till the earth had a mantle of white. 

From out of the East swept the morning 

As a bride to her wedding so gay, 
And brought as a gift to earth creatures 

A marvelous jewel display. 

Over each hill and deep hollow; 

O'er each bending blade and each tree 
Lay a mantle of white, diamond studded, 

A sight worth a fortune to see. 



30 A Farmer s Musings 



WHEN THE RHODODENDRON BLOOM 

I know a dark, secluded valley, 

O'er hung with vine and spreading tree, 

Where a noisy spring stream tavels, 
Hustling on with crazy glee. 

Wild fllowers in the spring grow rampant 
On the spots the sun makes warm. 

Here too, one sees the lizard darting, 
And the " cotton tails" neat form. 

Song birds to their mates coo softly, 
Making homes midst boughs of green, 

Far back in the depths of woodland 
Where they hope to stay unseen. 

June brings charm to any valley, 

But to mine a feast 'twill bring, 
For 'twill order "open sesame" 

Where buds of rhododendron cling. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 31 



Then will fall a cloak of beauty, 
O'er the valley like a shower, 

Giving to those rugged hillsides 
A taste of Nature's mighty power. 



June will bring to field and valley, 
Pastures fair and ripening grain, 

Meadows, and the charm of reaping, 
Cattle grazing on the plain. 

But all these will be forgotten, 

When kindly shower and season brings 
Life and beauty to those hillsides, 

Where the rhododendron clings. 



32 A Farmer s Musings 



THE RAINBOW 

The sun is making its beat to the west 

A spatter of rain passes by; 
The dart from a sunbeam pierces a drop 

And behold, a great bow in the sky — 
A thing of such beauty but seldom beheld 

The work of a great God on high. 
Its blending of colors no painter could match, 

No architect its plans could supply. 
A bow of perfection, no flaws for detection 

In this work of the Maker on high. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 33 



THE FLOOD 

From morn till nightfall 

Then from night till morn again, 

Descended the rain on mountain and hill, 

A steady, swift downpour from dark leaden sky. 

The song of the rivulet 
Met the roar of the waterfall; 
The lashing and crashing in forest and thicket 
Was drowned by the forces that battled on high. 

Down the side of the mountain 
And from off every hillside 
Rushed great sheets of water colored with clay, 
As though all things human it were bound to defy. 

The night fell with darkness 

Like unto the region 

Where dwell all creatures eternally damned, 

Water only, made tossing, was discerned by the eye. 

Came again the glad morning 
And with it the sunshine, 

Lighting up a strange world with water made mad — 
Every creek a broad river rushing on swiftly by 

Down into the valley, 

With its meadows and corn fields, 

Swept a thousand swift torrents from out of the hills 

Like a burst of wild cursing with none to reply. 
3 



34 A Farmer s Musings 

The broad placid river, 
In the heart of the valley 
Raised like a serpent its great glistening head 
And covered the face of the valley well nigh. 

The spring brought a covering 
Of green to the valley 

And again smiled the stretches of meadow and corn 
But God only can find the dead where they lie. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 35 

DIXIE WINTER 

Fickle art thou, Dixie Winter, 
Promising one hour the Springtime — 
With its dashing showers and rainbows — 
Then forgetting e'er the nightfall 
And go flirting with the North Wind 
Changing all to gloom and gray. 

Will you not e'er learn the lesson, 
Taught by cousins in the North-land, 
Who have studied through the ages — 
Tutored by the hoary Frost King — 
How a modest, comely Winter 
Should maintain her dignity; 

How when once she'd clothed the green fields 
With a mantle white and fleecy; 
Changed the river to paved highways 
And the earth to granite hardness, 
She should rest then on her laurels 
'Till the springtime comes her way? 

Still we love you, Dixie Winter, 
As half springtime you go sporting 
Pelting us with sleet at evening — 
Then— as if to make atonement 
Or but, perhaps, to see us smiling — 
Pour floods of sunshine all next day. 

But when comes your mood repentant — 
Fields so green and sky all cloudless 
Frost at morn and starlight evening 
Filled between with warmth and sunshine — 
Then you bind us with your shackles 
And can lead us where you mav. 



36 A Farmer s Musings 



SPRING AGAIN 

Comes again now the gay springtime, 
With its flashes of bright sunshine 
Through the teardrops from the heavens, 
Bringing joy to blade and flower. 

Again is heard the cooing lovenote 
Of the songster in the willow, 
Telling yet again the story 
Of his fondness for his mate. 

Gentle zephyr lashed to madness, 
Then subsiding to a whisper 
As the shades of night time gather 
Over greening hill and dale. 

All the night folks in mad revel, 
Each his happiness proclaiming, 
Each a separate story telling 
Of the joy the time has brought. 

Grass and flowers and birds and insects 
Sweetly smiling or exclaiming 
O'er the blessing of the springtime 
That's returned to earth once more. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French . 37 



OLD YEAR ADIEU-1913 

Old Year, you've been a partner true, 
Given each of us some work to do; 
Caused each to think of faithful friend, 
And for thought gone wrong to make amend. 
Taught each to do some kindly deed, 
Give aid to fellowman in need, 
Warned each that time is on the way, 
And tasks best done are done to-day. 
Indeed, you've been a partner true. 
So now we bid you fond adieu. 



PART TWO 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 41 



FLIRTING WITH MOTHER EVE 

Mother Eve in an early day 
Stole Father Adam's heart away, 
Made him eat an apple ripe and red, 
The juice from which went to his head. 
These lines were penned lest we forget 
She's at her tricks still — even yet. 



42 A Farmer s Musings 



EYES OF BLUE 

Men rave of the blue of an evening sky 

With its fringe of gold and gray; 
Of the blue of a lake midst the mountains high 

Where sunbeams make merry all day; 
Of the wealth of blue of a summer sea, 

At eve when the ships steam away, 

But the blue of the sky or the blue of a lake, 

Or the blue of a summer sea, 
Mean naught to one who has seen the blue 

In two eyes that look up at me, 
Those eyes so blue, kind, sparkling, true; 

In them almost heaven I see. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 43 



ST. VALENTINE 

Above the sordid things of life 

Are realms where thoughts are prone to stray 
And feel a touch of heaven's delight 

Though all around be cold and gray 

Foes of the heart may curse and rave 
And seek to force an entrance here 

Where — in halls of gilt and white — 
Are treasures that our souls hold dear. 

But hate and other sins unnamed 

See but a cloud of darkest night 
And go their way on hell's own road, 

When just o'er head are stars and light. 

One key alone — a golden key — 
Gives access to this treasure store; 

Love lights the portals and makes plain 
Where hangs the key above the door. 

This mystic home of heart's delight — 

Where joy is host and serves love's wine — 

Has a guardian staunch and true, 
Known as good St. Valentine. 



44 A Farmer's Musings 



THE TAR HEEL GIRL 

In an inland Tar Heel City 
Dwells a lady, charming, witty, 
Brighter than a Summer morn, 
More gentle than its breezes borne. 

Fair her cheeks as springtime roses, 
Sweet her lips as wildwood posies, 
The beauty of her spirit gives 
A taste of Eden where she lives. 

Not all her world is filled with play 
But boasts some service every day. 
She's more precious than any pearl 
This bewildering, puzzling, Tar Heel girl. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 45 



A SOUTHPORT VALENTINE 

Where old ocean murmurs soft and low, 
Or bellows, fiercely, with blow on blow, 
Where live oaks rear their heads serene, 
And dull sad winter clothed with green; 
Where sea-gulls wing their merry flight, 
'Twixt sea and sky as streaks of white; 
There, in a town above the quay, 
Dwell mesdames fair and maidens gay. 
For these this wish is truly mine, 
That each may be a valentine. 



46 A Farmer s Musings 



EYES OF GRAY 

Through Summer heat or Winter cold 
The gray eyed girls, with courage bold, 
Will march straight on and win the prize 
O'er girls with brown, or pale blue eyes. 

For vision goes with eyes of gray, 
Obstructions on life's broad pathway 
Are brushed aside as feather tossed, 
And vantage gained is seldom lost. 

In eyes of gray, too, lurk much fun 
And when the sterner tasks are done — 
When life takes on a holiday — 
Then watch out for those eyes of gray. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 47 

THE MEANEST THING I EVER DID 

What's the meanest thing I ever did? 
Well, it happened when I, only just a kid, 
Was sleighing one cold December night, 
With a sweet little girl with eyes so bright. 

By some means she'd seized the chance 
To make Old Jim hop, skip and dance, 
When — on the run along a hill — 
We struck a rock and took a spill. 

Then over the hill we youngsters shot, 

And the pace we set was plenty hot, 

The swiftest bird in its merry flight 

Could have learned from us that Winter night. 

Stopping at last in a monster drift 
I pulled her out with a tender lift, 
Thinking that all was then serene 
With never a thought of anything mean. 

But as she stood below that hill — 
With much snow down her collar still — 
She, with a look, began to talk, 
And I stood like a country gawk. 

And with ears tingling and eyes aflame 
Said "Hush! for you were all to blame. 
For you it was who were driving, see, 
And now you're laying it onto me." 

Oh ! could I have had the wit to say, 

"Just wait till those tears I've wiped away 

And brushed the snow from your beautiful throat," 

I might then have been in a different boat. 



48 A Farmer s Musings 



LOVE BY PROXY 

Tales of love are most unfitting 

From men with hair turned silvery gray, 
Theirs to find a quiet corner — 

Near a blazing wood fire say, 
Or on a path through smiling valley, 

With mountain peaks not far away, — 
There to dream of long past frolics 

When youth made life a holiday. 

But should Old Father Time in mercy 

Forget for just one passing day 
And me slip off for once the knowledge 

Of the debt old age must surely pay, 
Methinks that words near kin to love words 

Might from my lips be winged away 
To a charming neighbor lassie, 

Coming four years old some near by^day. 

But alas, alack, 'tis but a fancy 

Time plays not jolly trick that way 
The hand of time grows never weary 

And dogs grown old have had their day. 
Still though it might be worth the trying 

To joke Old Father Time some way. 
How would this work, to take some youngster 

And teach him just the words to say? 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 49 

To teach him how to tell the story 

Of eyes that haunt one all the day; 
Of lips that tempt one and beguile one 

And cause one's will to swerve and sway. 
There's just one thing, though, as I see it 

Might make my work like sodden clay 
Those lips he might attempt to smother 

And she not wish to say him nay. 



EYES OF GREEN 

In the sandy Eastern country, 

Where grows the long leaf yellow pine, 
There dwells an earnest lady teacher 

Who stimulates like rare old wine. 

Crowned she is with dark brown tresses, 
Her eyes she vows are shades of green, 

But to me — well versed in such things — 
They're most the finest ever seen. 



50 A Farmer s Musings 



A VALENTINE 

I wonder if my lady fine 

Would care aught for a valentine 

From one who thinks most wondrous fair 

Her bonnie eyes, her dark brown hair; 

Her lips that tempt one to despair, 

Her cheeks the color of the dawn, 

Her form as graceful as a fawn? 

If so, this is her valentine, 

For she's a partner true of mine. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 51 



ADVICE TO ONE WHO WINS A WIFE 

A man who wins a little wife 
Need never think he's done with strife, 
For, first one thing and then another 
Will make him wish to "run to cover." 

But when he's near where cover was — 
About to whisper sly ha-ha's — 
What will his discomfort be 
To find his cover "up a tree." 

And wifie on a lower limb, 
Smiling her sweetest down at him, 
Just hoping her suggestions fine 
May with his notions be in line. 

"Oh yes! yes, yes! just so, just so!" 
He might as well let the matter go. 
And let his joys play a minor part. 
To wine's joys from the very start. 



52 A Farmer s Musings 

THE FAIREST FLOWERS 

Not in country lane or garden 
Does one always find the flower 

That to him appeals most strongly 
In his recreation hour. 

But ofttimes in lonely village, 
Or even midst the citiy's roar, 

Will he find a fragrant blossom 
That will appeal to him far more. 

Nor do we find the flower most lovely 

Always in some shaded glen, 
But more oft in field or garden, 

Where mad storms and sun have been 

So, too, is it with our fair ones — 

Those we're pleased to call our " betters "- 

Some of these do madly chatter, 
And others write the sweetest letters. 

But, kind sir, these are but samples 

Of how ladies fair may grow 
When they lack the poise and purpose 

Of real, true, women here below. 

Thought and work give to our fair ones 
Eyes that speak a language stronger 

Than do the eyes of helpless infants 
Infants, though in arms no longer. 

So here's to the thinking fair one, 
She with eyes that sparkle brighter 

Because her brain is like a bee hive 
While she bangs on her typewriter. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 53 



A VALENTINE 

From out the land of Long Leaf Pine 
My heart cries out for those of mine 
At " Sunny Home" — where fields are green, 
Where streams run deep and swift and clean, 
Where cattle low and lambs are gay, 
Where Summer brings the scent of hay. 
To those this simple note of mine 
Reminds of good St. Valentine. 



EYES OF BROWN 

Here's to the girl with eyes so brown, 
Her word is law to the lads in town; 
With lips so — well, so very sweet, 
The one safe course is swift retreat; 
With cheeks so wondrous fair, 
That dimples leave with jealous stare, 
But return again and claim the place 
Of the most bewitching in the race. 



54 A Farmer s Musings 

THINGS WE FEAR AND THOSE WE FEAR NOT 

The tasks we've done 

Are those we fear not — 

Hate, perhaps, or with joy recall. 

But those same life tasks, 

When once we know them, 

Are like whiskey punch at an Irish ball. 

The feats that daunt — 

Before which we tremble — 

When on life's path they loom ahead 

Are those our ignorance 

Has clothed in wonder. 

Than these aught else we'd choose instead. 

The pains we've known 

We can bear tomorrow. 

But let the morrow its portion mete 

And we'll, as staunch 

Soldiers of ill fortune, 

Take what's our due with courage replete. 

The joys we've known — 

Were they joys most truly — 

We would meet again some other day. 

We would take of life 

A portion double 

Of the elixir that drives old age away. 

But the loves we've known — 

Ah! those loves, my laddie — 

They've led us many a fearsome way, 

But still there's that 

In their elusive sweetness 

That calls us back when we think to stray. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 55 



CHERRIES 

Cherries, plucked in early morning, 

While on each fruit a night kiss lingers; 

Cherries to their stems still clinging, 
Plucked for you by friendly fingers. 

Cherries red and firm and juicy, 

Fresh from out their orchard bower; 

Cherries — fruits the gods prize highly — 
Plucked for you this morning hour. 



LUCY DIX AND MISS ESTELLE 

In an old Virginia village, 

Undisturbed by train or bell, 
Dwell two charming, dark haired maidens, 

Lucy Dix and Miss Estelle. 

Blithesome, gay and happy ever, 
Eyes deep blue — 'tis truth I tell — 

Can one find a pair more lovely than 
Lucy Dix and Miss Estelle? 

Studious, kind and wondrous clever, 
Cheeks that fairly cast a spell, 

Not soon again will we find the equal of 
Lucy Dix and Miss Estelle. 



56 A Farmer's Musings 



BLOOMING AND FRUITING 

When some years hence — 

some April day — 
These cherries bloom 

and festoons gay 
Hang from each limb 

like balls of snow, 
Should all go right 

you then may know 
That among the boughs 

some day e'er long 
Will sound the note 

of the robins song. 
'Tis then you'd best 

send Peter out 
And order him to 

"turn about" 
And pick those cherries 

ripe and red 
Before the robins 

get ahead. 



Note— Sent to a lady with a bundle of cherry trees. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 57 



FOUR TOMATOES 

In a wondrous sunny garden, 

Up above the valley Dan, 
Stalked a fair, determined lady, 

Carrying in her hand a pan. 

Stooping often, ever searching, 

All along a fruiting row, 
At last she pounced upon a treasure, 

A great big, fleshy tomato. 

"That," she 'lowed, "is just the checker. 

If find three more I only can 
I will take them as a present 

To that shaking, chilling man." 

They came, those great, red, husky beauties; 

Came and conquered in a walk, 
And in conquering filled the shaker 

So he scarce could even talk. 

But his mind kept working smoothly 

After speech had all but failed, 
And thoughts of her who brought the "tomats" 

Were the ones that most prevailed. 



58 A Farmer s Musings 



A WIFE'S VALENTINE 

A valentine I send to you, 
Across the hills o'er waters blue, 
From eastern sands to Piedmont hills, 
To you whose love my whole life fills. 

A valentine, a loving call, 

To you across the hills — that's all. 



Note — Written on the North Carolina coast, 1913. 



PART THREE 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 61 



STORIES 

Simple stories gathered daily 

From life's rose or thorn-strewn way; 
Events we've had a hand in shaping 

While at tasks both stern and gay, 
Joys we've known and laughed o'er gaily 

As they've met us face to face. 
Pains we've felt when friend and kindred 

Have fallen out in time's swift race. 
Things we've seen that left us mirtlr filled 

Or gave to hearts a flood of pain; 
Hopes we've had for fellow toiler 

As he fell then rose again. 



62 A Farmer s Musings 



SONGS TO BE WRITTEN 

(November, 1918) 

From out the wild year 
That has passed and gone 
Have come stirring events 
To preserve in song — 
Stories of love 
And stories of hate; 
Stories of letters 
That came too late. 
Tales of shot 
And bursting shell; 
Of deeds that shamed 
Even blackest hell. 

Of fights that were fought 

In sleet and rain; 

Of suffering endured — 

On trucks or train, 

In prison camp 

Or in trenches deep — 

Where in mire and filth 

Only dead men sleep — 

In hospital tent 

Or under the stars — 

By Doughboys young 

Or blue clad Tars. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 63 

Of events that transpired 
In "No Man's Land," 
When foe met foe 
Fighting hand to hand, 
Leaving their dead 
In the mud where they fell; 
Pressing straight on — 
As though courting hell — 
Midst scenes lighted up 
By the strong lurid glare 
Of rockets exploding 
High in mid air. 

Of King men who fought 
O'er the clouds high hung — 
Only God to witness 
When their work was done; 
Or when, foeman conquered, 
He was dashed to earth 
On the graves of the dead 
Or on war-ruined hearth — 
Brave men one and all, 
Whether foeman or friend, 
Who flew through the heavens 
And fought to the end 



64 A Farmer s Musings 

Of mothers who prayed 
Every night and all day, 
For the loved ones of theirs 
From homes far away; 
In war-tortured France, 
Or on the wide sea, 
Their petition — tear freighted : 
Bring him back safe to me; 
Bring him back 'cross the water, 
'Cross the sub-ridden sea; 
When he's finished his mission 
Bring my soldier to me. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 65 



THE BORDER BOOK CLUB 

On border where the North State 

Meets Virginia's verdant hills; 
Where the hum of loom and spindle 

Vies with laughing rippling rills; 
Where pastures green and meadows 

Spread serene on every hand — 
Enhancing e'en the beauty 

Of the Eden Garden land — 
There's a band of charming women, 

Matrons fair and maidens gay, 
Of whose work, with words of music, 

Am I asked to speak today. 

Banded as "The Border Book Club," 

A score of years almost ago; 
Seekers after social pleasures — 

Men folks left at home you know — 
Or delving in the mystic caverns 

Where dwell the ghosts of great ones gone- 
Men who've taught the world a lesson 

In statesmanship or work or song 
Or with masterstroke on canvas 

Fixed the vision of their age. 
Or of others, none less able, 

Word picture writers for the stage. 



66 A Farmer s Musings 

Then to ease up on the gray stuff — 

Just to fluff it up a bit — 
Dive then into fiction's water, 

Such an earnest plunging dip. 
Rising to the surface calmly 

With some writer's scalp to land 
Make him wish he'd kept to plowing 

Instead of taking pen in hand. 
Then some other — whose real genius 

Marks him as a great pen fiend — 
May sigh and thank his stars so lucky 

That he's escaped from being beaned. 

Then anon, back to the present, 

With its task but started well. 
The rise of nations all astagger 

From out the depth of war's mad hell 
Sneaking, bolshevistic horror — 

Child of madness and decay — 
When should reign calm, sane, reason 

That leads us civilization's way; 
That gives to every human creature, 

With God's plain mark upon his brow, 
The right to visions from the hilltop, 

With none to thwart or question how. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 67 

Lucky Border, Lucky Eden, 

Lucky all, I well may say, 
When within our charming quarter, 

Working there so forcefully, 
Bides this band combining wisdom, 

Social charm — degree untold — 
Helpfulness to those about them, 

Promptings of their hearts of gold. 
Storms may gather, small or mighty, 

Evil reign, while bad men gloat 
But this club along the border 

Methinks will steady hold the boat. 



68 A Farmer s Musings 



WHO KNOWS 

I stood on the sands of Carolina's Coast 

At the close of a Winter's day, 

And watched the sun sink away to rest 
And the dolphins sport on old ocean's breast 

And the sea gulls dart and play 

At my back was the river where it meets the shock 

Of the ocean waves rolled high, 

And the fort at my left, where the evening gun 
Boomed forth the call that the day was done 

And the night was drawing nigh. 

To my right was the town — made so old and gray 
By the sun and storms so grand — 

And the live oaks tall that lined the street 
And the footprints, small, made by children's feet 
In the deep light yellow sand. 

'Neath my feet was the wreck of an ocean craft 

That had passed the long, long way. 

And the hopes she held as she plowed the waves 
And the brave men she sent to watery graves. 

Who of us that know today? 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 69 

FROM BOONE TO BLOWING ROCK 

Out from Boone the road leads, winding 

Past shady banks and gurgling springs; 
Past rock-faced hills, so bleak and staring — 

Save where the rhododendron clings. 

A fine road this, through old Wautauga — 
A good man's proof of work well done — 

The winding way from out the Blue Ridge 
Toward the land of rising sun. 

Traveled once — past orchard, meadow; 

Past rock-faced hills and fertile plain, 
O'er rushing stream, through smiling valley — 

The traveler longs to come again. 

The moments pass one all too quickly 

As mile on mile he leaves behind; 
Then presently from out before him 

There breaks a view almost sublime. 

Few other roads throughout the " North State" 

May boast such beauty, by the way, 
And none there are can show at ending 

Such wide, magnificent display. 

A hundred miles of grass green valleys, 

Tree clad hills and rolling plain. 
A million years of beauty making 

Lying within one's vision's range. 

'Tis this one sees beneath him lying 

As on the " blowing rock" he stands 
And if e'er place can show more beauty 

It's not been seen in Eastern lands. 



70 A Farmer s Musings 



THEODORE ROOSEVELT 

(26th President of the United States) 

One of earth's great ones 
At the time when his mind 
Was reaching above toward 
Its zenith of power, 
Faltered a moment 
In his journey last night, 
Then his soul rushed away 
Toward the mansion of light. 

The world is in mourning, 

And good cause have earth's people 

To be bowed in deep grief 

O'er the event of the night, 

For all men are made poorer 

By their loss, in a way, 

Of the strong valiant warrior, 

Whom we're mourning today. 

Death, with his sickle, 
When cutting his swath 
Through the ranks of the great 
Has many laid low. 
Oft times has he taken 
His toll from our nation 
Men mourned for themselves 
And because of their station. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 71 

But seldom in stalking 
Abroad on his mission 
Of gathering the great 
From the ends of the earth, 
Has he chose such a sample 
Of man earth would keep, 
As this patriot, this world man, 
Who's now fallen asleep. 

We're mourning today, 
Will more on the morrow 
When we learn the full worth 
Of him who has gone. 
His power of uplifting, 
His vision, his kindness, 
Will dispel as by knife thrust 
Our meanness, our blindness. 

So while he is absent 

He's still ever with us; 

His life an example 

To leaders of men. 

His spirit left with us 

As a sword from high heaven 

Will guide us and guard us 

And the whole lump will leaven. 



72 A Farmer s Musings 



MOTOR BOATING IN WINTER 

For Salem our party made a start, 
With laugh and jest and merry heart, 
While yet the day was young and fair, 
And the salt sea breath was in the air. 

The little open motor boat 
Called loud for wraps and overcoat, 
For the winter morn was clear and cold 
To mariners, both fair and bold. 

When out upon the river broad 
Naught else could one do save applaud 
The gallant little river steed 
That rushed us on with steady speed. 

For twelve long miles o'er waters blue 
The engine did her duty true, 
And not one time did she rebel, 
So outward bound no harm befell. 

At 4 P. M. — the good byes said — 
The party to the wharf we led, 
And turned the little boat to run 
Homeward toward the setting sun. 

And none a straw in her path did lay 
For 'twas bitter cold at the close of day, 
And every one, each saint and sinner, 
Had mind set on mine host's good dinner. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 73 

But soon the engine seemed nonplussed, 
We wondered not that ladies fussed, 
Declaring they "just couldn't wait 
A mile from shore and it getting late." 

We cranked her, primed her — cussed her, too — 
But still she couldn't or wouldn't do 
And finally we poled her back to shore, 
Another hired, and deemed trouble o'er. 

But when we got to water deep 
The new boat failed her word to keep 
And left us worse off than before, 
For now we were two miles from shore. 

And cold the night and dark and drear 
And dinner time gone past us clear, 
And we, sitting in that open boat, 
Wondering what had the engine's goat. 

Then all at once, no reason giving, 
She started off toward better living, 
Then smiles and jokes began to play 
And trouble fled from us away. 

And we talked about a fine milk stew, 
Then have some fried and a good tea brew, 
And a sirloin steak, and a bit of fish, 
And about every other restaurant dish. 

So after all 'tis not so bad 

To have your boat turn out a cad, 

For it ensures an appetite, 

Which, satisfied, makes one all right. 



74 A Farmer s Musings 

WAKEMAN'S HUNDRED YEARS 

(1817-1917) 

Came five strangers one glad springtime, 
To where a river silvery glows 

Between majestic elms and beeches 
Bending from their stately pose; 

Bending till their sweeping branches 
Kiss the water as it flows. 

Came those strangers from the eastward, 

From a rocky barren land. 
A sturdy band, courageous, willing, 

Strong of heart and head and hand; 
Strong to meet the perils many 

Lurking in the forest grand. 

Strove they well with axe and cant-hook 
Reared them cabins hewn from log, 

Cleared a space and planted gardens, 
Raised their meat with gun and dog; 

Raised a living for their children, 
Made their law the decalogue. 

Fought their wives the battles bravely 

That come to every pioneer. 
And as the years moved slowly onward 

Kept their vision strong and clear; 
Kept the vision of the broad life — 

For their children prized most dear. 



*Note — The author's great-grandfather, Silas French, was one 
of a party of five who made the first settlement at Wakeman, Ohio, 
in 1817. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 75 

So came a schoolhouse in, the forest, 

Simple as the cabins all, 
And gathered there the children ever 

With the coming of the fall; 
With the coming of the harvest, 

When was heard the blackbird's call. 

Others came, and yet still others 

Came to join this sturdy band 
To make their home, to rear their children 

In this fertile western land; 
In this land where suns are kindly 

To aid the farmers skillful hand. 

Came a church, too, in due season, 

Built beside a giant oak; 
Modest — for these were modest people, 

These sons of staunch New England folk; 
These men who to their God bowed meekly 

But spurned the thought of human yoke. 

And in this church each Sabbath morning, 

From week to week and year to year, 
Were taught those truths — those simple doctrines — 

The true New Englander held dear; 
The doctrines that through all the centuries, 

Have brought their gift of hope and cheer. 



76 A Farmer's Musings 

So flowed the lives of these strong people, 
As flow the lives of workers ever; 

Planting, reaping, trading, building, 
Pushing onward, idle never; 

Pushing toward a higher standard 
Singly or, more oft, together. 

Then came to these, as come to others 
Across our wide and favored land, 

The call to arms to save the nation 

Their sires had vowed should ever stand; 

The call of Lincoln — stern, herioc, 

With heart of love and courage grand. 

How well these men, these sons of woodmen, 
Served their country all know well. 

Four years of battle, camp and prison 
To many tolled the parting knell, 

To many brought the long, sound slumber — 
A story sad indeed to tell. 

Then came those years — those fifty golden, 
Fruitful, happy, precious, yfears — 

When workers strove with faces forward ; 
Time for naught of idle fears ; 

Time for ringing blows struck squarely 
Against those wrongs that harbor tears. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 77 

Wakeman's men, at work, in business, 
Themselves have proved the best man's peer; 

Her women though have been her fortress 
Through guarding well the home life dear 

By standing guard beside the fountain, 
To keep its Sowings pure and clear. 

Their sons have gone to East, to Westward, 

South where the cotton blooms so fair; 
Have built their place with Yankee courage 

Facing grim odds with a bonny air; 
Facing the world with calm assurance, 

Because of the sturdy blood they bear. 

You builded well, men from the Eastward, 

Your work was done long years ago; 
But 'twill live in this good country 

So long as waters gaily flow. 
So long as men love right and courage 

Your work will live, God wills it so. 



78 A Farmer s Musings 



THE TREASURE PART 

A backward glance across the years 

When we're on life's hilltop standing 

Gives a measure true of the things worth while 

Of the thoughts that were worth thinking — 

If we hold the heart as the treasure part 

Of the house in which we are living. 

Not a day that past on the journey up 
Through the year's resistless forcing 
But holds a gem for our treasure store, 
But recalls a past we would live again, 
If we held the heart as the treasure part, 
Of the house in which we were living. 

Blown from the waste of straw and chaff 
By the breath of the years in passing 
Comes the hopes we held for our fellow man 
As he faltered and fell but climbed again, 
If we held the heart as the treasure part 
Of the house in which we were living. 

A glance ahead toward the journeys end 
With the past enlightened vision 
Should reveal the chance for a life made great 
Through faith and work and courage strong 
If we hold the heart as the Treasure part 
Of the house in which we are living. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 79 



WHAT MEANS OUR FLAG 

What means our flag — 
As unconquered still 
Waves its stripes of red 
And its stars of white 

O'er our broad rich land from sea to sea — 

What means that flag to you and me? 

Does the sight of the flag 

Our fathers loved 

And for which they fought 

In years gone by 

Inspire in us the purpose strong 

To guard that flag from every harm 

With our wealth, our men and our strong right arm? 

Does it mean the same 

As in years that passed 

Before our men — some millions strong — 

From factory, shop, office and farm, 

Steamed away across the wide, deep sea 

To preserve a nation for you and me? 

Does it mean as much 

As it ought to mean 

Since our flag was raised 

On the soil of France 

With the stern resolve it should not be furled 
'Till we'd paid our debt to a Hun cursed world? 



80 A Farmer s Musings 

Will it mean the same 

In the years to come 

When we feel not the spur 

Of our present task. 

Will our blood grow cool and our minds forget 
That e'en a greater work is before us yet? 

Will our heads be bowed 

In unmeasured shame 

As we see our flag 

Trailed in the mire 

And all that's past become as naught 
Because we shirked the task we early sought? 

No, it cannot be — 

O'er sea and land 

With steady heart 

And strong courage 

We'll build a nation that men may know 
Will protect its own where'er they go. 

And in the years to come 

Whate'er betide — 

Should the world go mad 

With lust and greed — 

Men will find in ours a nation strong, 

For she feared but God as she forged along. 

O'er this favored land 
Between the seas 
A flag shall wave 
Its colors strong 

And proclaim that men both fight and pray 

In the United States of America. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 81 



THE NAMELESS WRECK 

A battered, shattered hulk she lies 

On the beaten sand so high, 
Her name? 'Tis a secret of the sea, 

And with the sea will die. 

Long days and nights of calm or storm — 
While a stern fate drove her on — 

She rode the waves a cold sea corpse, 
Like a wraith from the great beyond. 

Spar by spar and plank by plank, 

She gave to the hungry sea, 
'Til her heart lay bare to the cruel waves, 

Then they cast her off with glee. 

Storms now may rage and waves roar on, 
She scorns their taunting boast, 

For she lies at rest, in her grave of sand, 
On our North Carolina coast. 



82 A Farmer s Musings 



STOLEN FRUIT 

'Twas the morning hour, 

And with laughter gay, 
We drove past the oaks, 

And were well on our way, 
Towards the wood on the hill 

Where the scaley barks grow 
And fall, sprinkling the earth 

As with pellets of snow. 

Our road was some gullied 

And bordered with briars, 
But Trixy was willing, 

And our rubber tires 
Rolled smoothly along 

And no harm befell, 
Though how we got lost once, 

I perhaps ought to tell 

And of how we wandered, 

Without purpose or rule — 
Ever followed about 

By Aunt Anna's old mule — 
Among stumps and through gullies, 

And ugly thorn patches, 
Which Trixy took bravely, 

Though covered with scratches. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 83 

Soon, though, we righted 

And were off with a dash, 
Through corn field and pasture 

And through branches kersplash 
Past a herd of fine cattle, 

At rest in the shade ; 
Past flocks of gay backbirds, 

In wild serenade. 

Now, by great stealth, 

Must we farther proceed, 
And to ever strange noise 

Stop and give closest heed; 
For we're now in the realm 

Of the scaley Bark King 
Whose rule is that pickers 

Must the half to him bring. 

And some may have followed 

This rule to the letter, 
But for us we'd a plan 

We thought would work better. 
It was this, 

And I ask if you think it not good, 
Just to gather our share, 

Leaving his in the wood. 

And this plan we followed, 

For an hour and a half 
Picking and sacking, 

With a joke and a laugh, 
And stopping a minute, 

When we got most too hot, 
To crack a few scaley barks, 

Right on the spot. 



84 A Farmer s Musings 

She filled her hat full, 

And I likewise my lid, 
And I told her true stories 

Of how, when a kid, 
I got into devilment, 

As only boys can; 
How once I stole melons 

From a poor swearing man. 

And she told — no she didn't; 

For it just isn't done, 
Thought it 'twere I've no doubt, 

'Twould be very good fun 
To learn of the frolics 

And flirtations withstood, 
By the Lady who traveled 

With me to the wood. 

She had promised her hubby 

We'd be back by midday 
And as time had been speeding 

We must "up and away" 
So down through the pasture, 

Where much cattle roam, 
We took our way gaily 

The longest road home. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 85 



BACK, WAR GOD 

(1914) 

Back! thou stern, relentless War God, 
Keep thy grip from off my land, 

Naught hast thou, save sorrow only, 
Carrying in thy gnarled hand. 

What hast thou to mankind given, 
jj|In the ages that have past, 
Save a torn and shattered manhood? 
A work that has e'en hell outclassed. 

Not content with plain destruction 
Of the present sturdy breed 

Thou dost damn all future peoples 
With a weakened, puny seed 

Gold we would not withhold from thee 
Would give it o'er with but a sigh; 

Our men, though we prize more highly 
For them we'll fight you 'till we die. 

Back! give heed to vioces many, 
Murmuring prayers from sea to sea, 

Back! or by the Lord eternal, 
Humanity shall deal with thee. 



86 A Farmer s Musings 

CHAPPEL MILL POND 

In the country of my boyhood, 

Where blue grass covers bluff and dell, 

Flows a famous large sized brooklet, 
Named by Indian "La Chappel." 

In the boy days of my father, 
When the farms were newly born, 

The waters of this creek were harnessed 
And made to grind the farmers' corn. 

And how well do I remember — 
Oft-times I've met it in a dream — 

The remains of an old mill dam, 

A staunch, protruding old "big beam." 

Hewn from heart of oaken monarch, 
While yet Red Men roamed the wood, 

This beam, for half a century, 

Marked the spot where the mill had stood. 

Down below the great thick sill beam, 
In the days when I was young, 

Was the dark and silent "deep hole" 
Where many a sturdy lad was flung. 

For those were lads of hardened muscles, 
Those lads, who, at the close of day, 

Gathered at the Chappel Mill Pond, 
To wash the grime of toil away. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 87 

And woe betide the timid youngster 

Who on the beam would hesitate, 
His case was called by one next to him, 

'Twas useless to expostulate. 

In the winter Chappel's waters 

Would be frozen hard and fast 
And sometimes well into April 

Have I known the ice to last. 

At last would come the time long looked for — 

The water feeling warm and good, 
To fingers calloused hardened, 

From carrying corn and kindling wood. 

And the word would go forth quickly 

Over hills from farm to farm, 
That the sun smiling on Chappel 

And ushered in its time of charm. 

Pride of place was claimed each springtime 

By the lad who, hot of blood, 
Would be first in all the region 

To plunge into the ice cold flood. 

And when he with eyes a-popping, 

Emerged from out the depth of cold, 
The next in line must follow quickly, 

Or give his place to one more bold. 



88 A Farmer s Musings 

Competition for first honors, 
Was one spring extremely keen, 

And two lads — just little fellows, 
Appeared quite early on the scene. 

Standing on the great beam shaking, 

From the chill of April air, 
Straws were called on to determine 

Which should first the water dare. 

The younger laddie — fat and rugged — 
When to him the portion fell, 

Struck the water like a rocket, 
And how it hurt would never tell. 

With goose flesh his skin fair wrinkled, 
But still he swam and dove about, 

Until the older, slimmer laddie, 

Had made his plunge with nervous shout. 

Then out he scrambled, up the creek bank, 
Crossed the pasture clear and wide, 

For distance now was all could save him, 
And were he caught then woe betide,. 

Flow on Chappel, flow on good waters, 
Give other* sturdy lads at play 

The same good times you gave to this lad 
Who's now a thousand miles away. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 89 



WORK 

Work! at break of day, 
When the day grows hot 
Then make work play. 
Work! Strive! still work 
When the shadows fall. 
Yes, work! 'tis drones who shirk. 

Work at desk or plow; 

Make your life work count — 

Care not just how. 

Work! Life is a field 

All beauteous white, 

Yes, work! only weaklings yield. 

Work at a comrade's side 

Or strong and alone — 

For the world is wide; 

But work with a will 

With eyes to the fore, 

Yes, work! 'tis rust that will kill. 

Work with a merry song, 
Though the task be hard 
And the day grown long. 
Keep the thought in mind 
'Tis a game I play 
Yes, work! don't be left behind. 



90 A Farmer s Musings 



A TALE OF COWEE MOUNTAIN 

Toward the West of Carolina — 
Where flows the Little Tennessee — 
There stands a grand old Mountain, 
Known to all as the Cowee. 

Tales are told of this old Mountain 
Weird and wild as tales can be, 
But one and all are her scars now hidden 
By her beauty of rock and tree. 

This beauty at dawn is all compelling 
And bids one's sould set trouble free, 
Her beauty at eve is a burst of glory, 
Inspiring in its majesty. 

Many a love has Cowee fostered, 
In her coves so fair and free, 
Undisturbed by the world's distractions — 
Loves strong and pure as loves e'er be. 

Hates too may perchance be hidden 
In Cowee's more rugged wilder way; 
Hates that smoke and burn and flame 
If left to draw a hates true pay. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 91 

Long ago 'twas told of Cowee, 
That along her dark secluded streams 
Curls of smoke would at times be noticed, 
Rising through the foliage green. 

And to the modest mountain cottage, 
Nestling at old Cowee's base, 
Would come the deadly, stealthy serpent — 
The same old one with smiling face. 

Sad faced then were the Cowee women 
And poorly clothed did the children be, 
Farms neglected, cattle wandering 
Along the banks of the Tennessee. 

But better times are now on Cowee — 
Times that make her people free — 
Curbed has been the whiskey demon 
And backward on the run is he. 

Triumphant now stands Cowee mountain, 
Guarded well her children be ; 
A grander, stronger, happier Cowee 
Than when she first was known to me. 



92 A Farmer s Musings 



THE CLOSE OF NINETEEN HUNDRED AND 

EIGHTEEN 

(Christmas, 1918) 

At the end of the world's most tempestuous year — 

When the earth was clothed with a fullness of fear; 
When the sea was filled with silence of hate 
When the sky learned tales no tongue can relate — 

Comes a peace, that months have grudgingly held; 

Comes a peace our doubts and fears has dispelled; 
Comes a glorious peace, with victory crowned, 
Bringing hope and good cheer the wide world around. 

Oh, praise to the God who brought peace to the earth, 
Who dispelled the war storm and gave freedom rebirth, 
Who fought on the side of the lovers of men 
And from chaos brought honor and order again; 
The same mighty God, who long years ago 
Gave his son to the earth — a prince here below — 
Gave him a free gift — a God gift indeed — 
Who will stand at the bar and for us intercede. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 93 



A TALE OF LONG AGO 

In a humble vine-clad cottage 
Close beside a rushing stream, 

Dwelt a gray haired melon grower, 
Owner of a spanking team. 

None in all that famous region — 

Where melons reach their best estate — 

Could a finer fruit deliver, 
Or a better tale relate. 

And had you, in hurrying homeward, 
Thought to pass his Arab steeds, 

You'd best have taken a second thought, 
For Otis was a man of deeds. 

And no one, whate'er his calling, 
Or what his great apparent rush, 

Could slip on by that team of Arabs 
Without the hottest little brush. 

Otis' faults — Oh, yes, he had them, 
Though not of the basest sort — 

Consisted of a knack for cussing, 
And of mighty sharp retort. 

The boys about — I ne'er would tell it 
Were it not long years ago — 

Would manage ways to hecter Otis, 
Just to hear him cuss and blow. 



94 A Farmer s Musings 

One night in windy cold December — 

They bound his wheels with lock and chain, 

And then laid low to hear what happened, 
I promise you 'twas some profane. 

"Boys will be boys" — you've surely heard it— 
And Otis claimed they'd be it twice, 

And other things he said about them 
That were filled with truth and spice. 

There'd been a deal of melon stealing — 
A thing that Otis couldn't stand — 

And he vowed he'd catch the youngsters 
And they'd feel his weighty hand. 

So he fixed him up a goods box, 

Close beside the melon field, 
And — with his trusty muzzle loader 

Crouched within quite well concealed. 

But his years played him most scurvy, 
Though of this he'd never peep, 

And, instead of watchful waiting, 
He fell into the soundest sleep. 

Then up crept two sturdy youngsters, 

Faces spoiled with evil grin — 
And upset the mighty goods box, 

Prisoning Otis there within. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 95 

Then with zeal — the sort most common, 

Where some fun is recompense — 
They weighed down the goods box firmly, 

With rocks from off a nearby fence. 

Now, do not think, not for a moment, 

That Otis had been calm this while, 
Far from it, hot streams of cursing 

Were issuing from beneath that pile. 

And very soon the midnight silence 

Was shattered by an awful blast, 
The muzzle loader was in action, 

And that report was not the last. 

For Otis, wild with shame and anger, 

Vowing he'd settle soon and good, 
Fired toward each sound of snickers, 

Until that box was kindling wood. 

The neighbors, attracted by the firing, 

Came on the run to Otis' aid, 
Then when they had heard his story, 

Other compliments were paid. 

Little heed was given these rantings 
By youngsters struggling through the loam, 

Their thoughts were on the lights that beckoned 
From their distant home, sweet home. 



96 A Farmer s Musings 



THE MISER 

At the foot of a frowning rock-faced hill 
Stands the wreck of an old time flouring mill 
Where, in an early pioneer day, 
Lived a miller strong, though old and gray. 

Of the miller, little was ever known 
Save that he lived at the mill alone ; 
A silent man who owned not a friend, 
Who worked for gold and no other end. 

One night there passed that lonesome way 

A sailor man from a ship in the bay — 

A gay young lad with his life before — 

And 'tis thought he stopped at the old mill door. 

When he left his ship that day in May 
He carried with him full six months pay, ' 
The stock of gold he had worked to save 
As he rode his ship o'er the bounding wave. 

A hundred years almost have flown 
Since the sailor went to the mill alone, 
And though search was made for miles around 
No trace of him or his gold was found. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 97 

The years rolled on and the miller gray 
Passed over the river on the dark highway; 
Hit the trail that leads to the miser's end 
And was buried alone in the river bend. 

Another miller repairing the mill 
Found a door beneath the great main sill, 
And in a box, made gray with mould, 
There lay the miser's hoarded gold. 

He had lived his life without a friend 
Was thought to have caused the sailor's end, 
Had naught to show for his life all told 
Save a buried box of muddy gold. 



98 A Farmer's Musings 



THE MAN ON THE LAND 

Down the path of the years 
That our country has gone 
On her quest of an ideal 
Or when righting a wrong, 
When on the crest of the wave 
Or in deepest distress, 
When fighting for self 
Or for brother oppressed, 
There has stood at her back 
With her fate in his hand, 
As a rock in the storm, 

The man on the land. 

His tasks ever heavy, 

His enjoyments too few; 

The weather his comrade 

Or stealing his due; 

His labor uncertain — 

If labor he's had 

Save labor of self, 

In good weather or bad. 

His life isolated — 

Almost alone does he stand, 

This saver of nations, 

The man on the land. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 99 

He has fought evil doing. 
As a class he has stood 
For measures that enacted; 
Helped his country make good, 
He's grumbled at times, 
When good reason he's had, 
But when unable to change it 
Looked for good in the bad. 
Just look up his record — 
In my opinion 'twill stand — 
And you'll value more highly 
The man on the land. 

A demand he will make 
In the time that's to come 
For a just recognition 
Of the work he has done : 
Of the place his work holds 
Among the things that endure 
His motives unselfish 
Powerful and pure. 
For 'tis proved that nations 
Will fall or will stand 
By the position accorded 

The man on the land. 



100 A Farmer s Musings 

No favors are wanted, 

But he's standing four-square 

For the same honest dealing 

Sought by men everywhere : 

A chance at the markets 

In every free land 

At the just price accorded 

To supply and demand. 

And then in his buying 

On this platform he'll stand: 

No extortionate prices 

To the man on the land. 

Give him in his business 
The justice that's due, 
And no need to worry 
O'er the course he'll pursue. 
For with cash in his pocket 
And respect in his soul 
He'll work out his problem 
And come to the goal 
With a life so well rounded 
And so well held in hand 
That all will do honor 

To the man on the land. 



Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 101 



CHRISTMAS INV0CATI0N-1914 

Kingly God child — gift from Heaven — 
Thy day of birth we hail this morn,. 

Breathe on us thy christening spirit,, 
Bring joy and hope to those forlorn. 

Kingly God child — gift from Heaven — ■ 
With majesty and glory crowned, 

Charge us with thy loving message 
Of "peace on earth" the wide world round. 



102 A Farmer s Musings 

THE HARVEST 

The harvest moon of 1918 sheds light on scenes such as 
human eye has never before looked upon, and the glory of the 
harvest lighted up, means more to humanity than have any of 
the harvests that have gone before in all the ages. A billion 
human beings and their descendants may be made free by the 
harvest that is now upon us, or be bound with the autocrat's 
chains, depending upon how turns the harvest. Ten million 
soldier boys and millions of men and women who, while serving 
humanity with every waking thought, with all the power of 
lives consecrated to as great a cause as ever moved men since 
the coming of the Son of God, are looking with hope to the 
ripening of the golden crop, every grain of which is more pre- 
cious than grains of purest gold. Great generals — minds freight- 
ed with the supreme effort of their lives — watch with the utmost 
anxiety the spreading of the golden wave o'er hill and valley 
from sea to sea. The commander in chief of the armies of the 
greatest nation God has yet allowed to grow to manhood's es- 
tate is looking off to the wheat fields of the New World for the 
succor they alone can give to the brave men under his command. 

Mothers who have consecrated the life of their lives, the 
blood of theirs, to the gigantic struggle — the purpose of which 
is to set humanity free from blood sacrifice — are praying for a 
harvest bountiful. Fathers, whose hopes of posterity have 
been laid on the altar of freedom, are pinning their faith to 
Almighty God, and the golden harvest that is at hand. The 
lives of millions of little children — who know not the meaning 
of grim war and who we trust will never again have cause to 
look upon its desolation — are hanging in the balance that 
marks the difference between the bountiful and the meager 
harvest. 

God in Heaven — the God of our fathers, who spread manna 
in the desert — swell that harvest and strengthen the decimated 
ranks of the reapers, that this swelling tide with the golden 
tinge may sweep on to victory the forces of right. 



)V~~ 



